An Unexpected Visit
by AraneltheFair
Summary: One boring November afternoon Sherlock and John receive a visit from a woman that baffles the Consulting Detective. She warns him of someone. But can he believe her when she is friends with a woman he decidedly does not trust? (NOT a love story)


_Part I - set in 'A Scandal in Belgravia' between the visit to Buckingham Palace and Christmas_

It was a fairly normal November afternoon for the inhabitants of 221b Baker Street. Outside the weather was atrocious, with heavy rain and strong wind, but inside the flat everything was warm and cosy.

Sherlock was lying motionless on the sofa, deep in his mind palace. He had not had a case for three days and was becoming increasingly bored. This morning the Consulting Detective had 'taken it out on the wall', as John always put it so nicely, but after a short shouting match the aggravated doctor had taken and hidden the revolver (_second to last drawer on the right side of John's desk, not a difficult deduction_). So Sherlock was back to fighting boredom on his own. He could practically feel his mind rot without the stimulation of solving a crime.

He was just thinking about starting a particularly noisy and malodorous experiment when the doorbell yanked him out of the depths of his mind.

_Single ring, right amount of pressure - client._

He shot of the sofa, stepped over the coffee table while pulling the dressing gown of his lanky frame and then slipped into the suit jacket that was hanging neatly over the back of a chair. He had found out that people did not quite take him as seriously when he received his clients in a dressing gown. Though that was apparently still more acceptable than a sheet. He never understood why people bothered with all these social rules when there were more important things to do.

John was in the kitchen making a pot of tea when the doorbell rang. He could hear Sherlock jumping of the sofa and putting on his jacket. So, obviously a client. And he was right. Just a few moments Ms Hudson's voice could be heard telling their visitor to 'Go ahead, they're upstairs'. John listened carefully. He had taken up some of Sherlock's methods and tried to deduce something about their visitor just by the sound coming up the stairs. The footsteps were light, but he could hear the faint 'click' of heels, so most likely a woman. It took her no more than five seconds to climb the 17 stairs, so she was probably young and in good condition.

John put down the kettle and ventured into the living room just in time to see a young woman stepping over the threshold. She was wearing a nearly knee-length coat in a deep red colour with a hood she had drawn up to shield herself from the ghastly weather outside. As she threw the hood back, very curly black hair spilled out from it and framed her face. She ruffled her hands through it in a gesture that reminded John very much of Sherlock. Said Consulting Detective stepped forward and put out his hand.

"May I? I could hang it up to dry."

John was surprised by such a considerate and polite offer coming from Sherlock. But then he saw the look in his friend's eyes – the 'deduction look', as he secretly called it – and realized that Sherlock had only stepped forward as an excuse to get closer to the woman in order to scrutinize her in detail. Hell, the man must really be bored out of his mind if he did that.

"Thank you."

Their visitor smiled brightly at Sherlock, though not in the particularly flirty manner most women – and a lot of men – did when meeting Sherlock for the first time (that was, before he opened his mouth and started to spew out the most impolite things, he really had the ability to piss off people within seconds).

Sherlock gestured towards the sofa.

"Please, take a seat. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Dr. John Watson."

John smiled at the woman.

"Hello. I was just making some tea. Would you care for some? You look a bit chilled."

The woman sat down on the sofa, almost directly under the yellow smiley face on the wall. John hoped that there were no more stray shell casings lying around from Sherlock's 'shooting practice' this morning. Sherlock had started to pace to and fro after putting her coat on one of the pegs in the hallway.

"Yes, thank you, tea would be lovely."

John had to suppress an internal shiver when he heard the woman's Irish accent. Ever since The Pool he automatically connected that variety of English with the madman James Moriarty. He turned around on his heels and half-marched back into the kitchen. Only moments later he returned with a tray holding three steaming mugs of tea. One of them he placed in front of their visitor, the other he handed to Sherlock who stopped pacing and sat down in his chair. The detective took a careful sip of the hot liquid, while his eyes continued to scan over their mysterious guest.

John had to give the woman credit: very few people could survive under such a piercing Holmesian stare without fretting, but not only did she seem completely unfazed by it, she even returned it and seemed to scrutinize him in return.

Finally Sherlock raised an eyebrow and asked: "Well, and you are?"

A short musical laughter left the woman's lips, though she seemed more amused than embarrassed.

"My god, where are my manners. I'm sorry. My name is Elisabeth O'Connell. First thing I wanted to tell you is that I am a great admirer of your work, Mr Holmes. I think your methods are astonishing. As for you, Dr. Watson, your blog is a continuous delight to read."

John still felt slightly embarrassed about the way an increasing number of people thought his blog was interesting. Even the government official at the Buckingham Palace and his 'employer' apparently had liked it.

Elizabeth squinted her sparkling green eyes.

"Though I have to admit, I am curious. Are you really as good as they say, Mr Holmes?"

A small arrogant smile tugged at Sherlock's lips.

"Better."

She cocked her head and smiled back at him.

"Really? Show me. Deduce me."

Sherlock was a little surprised. It was not rare that people wanted to see his 'little trick' – as they called it, dismissing the fact that it was a very precise science and not a party trick – but they usually did not want him to use it to deduce _them_. He had had quite a few quarrels with John about deducing people to their faces and apparently hurting their feelings. But this woman had practically invited him to do so. He cast one last glance at her and started.

"Despite your accent and your name it is very apparent that you yourself are not Irish. Definitely Europe, most likely Eastern Europe. But your husband is Irish and a bit of a traditionalist. You are quite well-to-do, but you are not snobbish about it. You also have a certain sense of nostalgia. You own a cat and are a talented seamstress. You don't mind the cold and you have a bit of a sweet tooth given that you stopped at the _'Petite Boulangerie d'Etoile'_ on Crawford Street just a few minutes ago. Am I right?"

He rattled through all of this within less than half a minute.

What he didn't say was that he was a little puzzled by her. When he had stood next to her while taking her coat he had taken a whiff of her perfume. Despite his normal proficiency in identifying all different kinds of perfume he could not tell what brand she used, only that it smelled of summer and rain, mixed with the faintest trace of copper. He was not even sure if it was a perfume or just her natural scent. He only knew that there was – _something_ – about her that unnerved him.

It could be her almost suspiciously perfect pale skin, similar to the one seen on heavily photoshopped magazine covers. The lack of blemishes or even the faintest traces of scars took away very reliable clues for his deductions, which bothered Sherlock a little. If the way John was checking her out (_really have to talk to him about how to eye someone inconspicuously_) was any indication, Ms O'Connell obviously was pretty enough, but something as superficial as outward beauty had never bothered him. Maybe it was the fluent way with which she moved, like a dancer or a big cat of prey. She also held her mug a little more careful than necessary, which could indicate that she was stronger than she looked.

Sherlock had long ago learned to trust his own intuition – in contrast to that of other people, because they were idiots most of the time. He was aware that his subconscious could pick up clues so incredibly subtle that not even his conscious mind noticed them. Elizabeth O'Connell was one of these cases were he trusted his intuition. Nothing about her clothing – _black tights, denim skirt, plum sweater_ – or her behaviour – _open face, body language showing interest_ – suggested danger, but he was cautious. He had not recognized 'Jim from IT' for the psychopathic madman he was when they first met, and something like that was never going to happen again.

"That was _amazing_."

The tone of Elisabeth's voice showed how impressed she was.

"Mediocre."

Despite this statement and the dismissive wave of his hand John could see that Sherlock was flattered. The man was as vain as a peacock.

Elizabeth shook her head a little.

"No, that was truly remarkable. How did you see all that?"

"Your origin is made quite clear when you speak. Your English is excellent, but in your vowels I can still hear a trace of Eastern Europe. Besides, you were cautious not to greet me while still standing in the doorframe, which is an Eastern European superstition to prevent 'bad luck'. That your husband is a traditionalist I can see from the ring on your left hand. It is a customary Irish wedding ring called 'Claddagh'. The positioning on your finger indicates your marital status and I'd say yours is at least … two hundred years old, most likely a family heirloom. Your clothing and your handbag are from designer labels, but your shoes are worn, though in excellent condition, which means that you keep them out of sentimentality, not out of need. Conclusion: You have money, but you are not snobbish about it. Now about your coat: there's black cat hair in three different places. That it is hand-made is apparent from the perfect fit and the fact that is does not have a label like store-bought clothing. There's a letter in your pocket. High-quality stationery, unlikely to be official paperwork, so you keep in touch with someone via letter. Furthermore, the address is written with a calligraphy pen and black ink. All very posh and slightly nostalgic. Your recent visit to the bakery is most obvious. Even John could deduce it from the paper bag with the name printed on it. I said you don't mind the cold. That much is obvious from the fact that you wear a coat, but no scarf or gloves despite the somewhat freezing temperature. You also walked here – your coat is wet and your shoes show a very distinct dirt pattern. Even if you are not bothered by the cold, it is still far from the ideal weather for an idle stroll. So your visit here has a very specific purpose, one which you deem significant enough to brave the storm outside. So please, tell me what you want me to investigate and don't be boring."

Elisabeth laughed again, a cheerful sound that reminded John of a bird.

"I gladly repeat myself. Remarkable. You are right on every account."

She suddenly leaned forward and placed her tea cup on the small table, the merry expression gone from her face, steel shining in her eyes. Her voice had lost its warmth.

"Except one: I am not here because I want you to investigate something. In fact, I would ask you _not_ to investigate something."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his face showed mild curiosity.

"Ah… and what would that be?"

"Laslo Balaur."

Elisabeth said the name like it was an insult. A small shark-like smile appeared on Sherlock's lips.

"Who said I was investigating him?"

"I am aware that you have taken interest in his ventures, though only superficially at the moment."

Sherlock actually had the nerve to chuckle.

"It is never wrong to learn about a criminal before they become a real problem."

Elisabeth shook her head and leaned back against the cushions of the sofa, again carefully sipping her still hot tea.

"Believe me, Balaur _is_ a real problem. Just not yours."

"Who are you talking about?"

John decided that it was time to remind them that he was still sitting next to them. Sherlock answered him, although his gaze remained focused on the mysterious woman on the sofa.

"Laslo Balaur, nickname 'The Dragon'. Romanian criminal. Head of an organisation he calls 'The Sons of the Dragon' dealing with everything from human trafficking to stolen art coming from or going into Eastern Europe. He was Romania's most-wanted criminal and has now decided to 'branch out'. He arrived in London about six months ago. I thought it wise to keep track of his business."

His attention shifted back to Elisabeth.

"Who told you I was investigating him?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Sherlock made a non-committal gesture with his hand.

"Call it professional curiosity."

Elisabeth drew a slightly exasperated breath.

"I was contacted about the matter by an old friend. A mutual … acquaintance, I believe."

She smiled at them. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Eireen Norton?" She spoke the name with a strong accent, sounding almost like 'Ee-RAY-n'. Sherlock showed no sign of recognizing the name. Elisabeth's musical laughter resurfaced for a moment.

"You know her perhaps better as Irene Adler."

At the sound of that name Sherlock immediately tensed. His former nonchalance was completely gone and replaced by wariness.

"How do you know her?" he forced through clenched teeth.

"That is none of your business."

The tone of her words made it clear that it was useless to ask further questions.

"She is aware that you are looking into Balaur's business and contacted me. She told me that your last meeting ended … a little _'unsatisfying'_ – her words, not mine. She knew that you would therefore not heed her advice, so she asked me to talk to you. And I'm telling you: stay away from that man. You have got no idea what you are dealing with. Balaur is dangerous. He is not like Moriarty. I know of the little _game_ the two of you played, Mr Holmes. Balaur will _not_ play games with you. He will kill you. Get in his way and you sign your own death warrant. Believe me."

The last two words came out in a very low and sad whisper and Elisabeth looked almost like she had to hold back tears.

"He killed your husband." That was a statement, not a question.

Elisabeth jolted in surprise, her face an unreadable mask, green eyes boring into Sherlock's blue-grey ones.

"How…?"

"The vehemence with which you speak of Balaur tells me that you have dealt with him in the past. You yourself are still alive, so apparently it was not you who got into his way. But it was someone very close to you judging from your emotional reaction. You were fidgeting with your wedding ring while you spoke of 'signing your own death warrant', so I'm assuming that it was your husband who was killed by Balaur."

Elisabeth looked down, an interesting mixture of rage, hurt and sorrow flitting over her face while she gently caressed the silver ring on her left hand. As she looked up, her face was expressionless again.

"Your deductions are correct, Mr Holmes. He killed my husband. And for that I hate Balaur with every fibre of my body. Believe me, he will pay for it. You, on the other hand, could only get yourself killed."

Sherlock gave a condescending sneer.

"Please. Other people way more dangerous than this self-proclaimed 'Dragon' have tried to kill me and found it a very difficult task to accomplish."

The smile that appeared on Elisabeth's face at that could only be described as wolfish.

"Mr Holmes, no matter how justified your pride in your abilities is, if Balaur decides that you are in his way, he will succeed in killing you. So, if you know what's good for you, don't go after him."

"So you propose that this man – if he really is as dangerous as you say – should be left alone to continue with his business here in London?"

"I never said that. I just said that _you_ shouldn't do anything against him."

"And then who do you have in mind for that task? The police? Pfth. Frankly said, they're idiots most of the time. Or do you plan to go after Balaur yourself?"

The tone of Sherlock's voice made it clear that he had his doubts about her capability of going after an international criminal. The wolfish grin reappeared on Elisabeth's face.

"Indeed. You may doubt it, but it will be _me_ to stop Balaur and no one else. That man is mine."

She spoke through clenched teeth and ended the promise with a barely audible growl. The murderous expression and the cold fire in her darkening eyes almost made John feel sorry for the man she had promised to hunt down. He did not know why, but he had a feeling that Elisabeth O'Connell was more than capable of whatever she had in mind. He had been in the military long enough to recognize unshakable determination when he saw it.

When Elisabeth spoke again, her voice had returned to the business-like tone she had used earlier.

"Now, Mr Holmes, I must repeat myself: If you know what's good for you, stay away from Balaur."

"Why are you so intent on keeping me alive? We don't know each other."

She chuckled.

"As I said, I was asked to do it on behalf of our mutual friend."

An expression of disdain crossed Sherlock's face.

"Right, Irene Adler. Then why is _she_ so intent on keeping me alive? The last time I met her, she drugged me and hit me with a riding crop."

For a moment Elisabeth seemed surprised, then she started to laugh.

"Yeah, that sounds just like the Irene I know. I'm not sure exactly what her game is, but I know that you have piqued her curiosity. And she hates to lose her toys before she's finished with them."

She stood up before the glare on Sherlock's face could deepen any further.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got other important business to attend to. Mr Holmes, if you would be so kind as to fetch me my coat?"

Sherlock's raised eyebrow was met with a slightly mocking smile from their visitor. Finally the detective gave in and heaved his lanky frame from his chair to get her coat. Elisabeth shrugged into it with long-practiced grace.

"Now, Mr Holmes, it was a delight to meet you. I really hope we can repeat that experience one day."

"The feeling is mutual, Ms O'Connell, I can assure you."

Sherlock stood towering over the woman that barely reached up to his shoulder. They locked eyes, not quite glaring at each other, but very close to it. Slowly, a slightly malicious grin spread on Elisabeth's face. There's something wrong with her teeth, John thought, before the stare down was interrupted by an erotic sighing coming from the pocket of Sherlock's jacket. Elisabeth's eyebrows shot up till they nearly met her hairline.

"That was my phone, Ms O'Connell, no need to worry."

"I'm not worried. It's just… I'm a little surprised about that sound. When did Irene get hold off your phone?"

"How do you know it's her?"

Elisabeth bit down on her bottom lip as if lost in a pleasant memory.

"Let's just say I know her well enough to have heard that … _sound_ before. I'll leave you to your own deductions."

Her smile spread even wider. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up, but for once he was clever enough not to say anything. John was very surprised when Elisabeth turned around and beamed at him merrily.

"Oh, and thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson. It was really excellent."

"You're welcome."

John was a little stunned that she had not completely forgotten his presence in the room since she had been so preoccupied with Sherlock.

"Now, as I said, it was a pleasure. Have a nice afternoon, gentlemen."

And with that and a dramatic whirl of her garnet coat she was gone. John turned towards Sherlock.

"What the bloody hell was that all about?"

Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows as he often did when he thought very hard, while he was checking his phone for the new message.

"I don't know. And I don't like not knowing."

* * *

_Part II - set between New Year and Mycroft telling John of Irene's death_

Sherlock was back in Baker Street after his short trip to Karachi, his small travel bag still lying haphazardly in the middle of the room. Ms Hudson was visiting her sister in the countryside and John was at a doctor's conference up in Manchester for the week. None of them would even know he had been gone from the flat for two days. Everything was silent except for the soft sounds he coaxed out of his violin. He needed to think.

It had been two days ago that he had found the letter in his morning mail. High-quality stationery, the address written with black ink. _Mr Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street – Urgent._

Inside he had found a plane ticket to Karachi, a photograph and a letter. The picture showed a woman in traditional Eastern robes, a scarf wound round her head. She was manhandled into a car by a pair of tall men with beards and turbans.

The letter was in an elegant feminine handwriting, though it showed signs of having been written in a hurry and under emotional stress.

_Mr Holmes,_

_I know that the last meeting between you and Irene ended fairly disastrous. Therefore I know that I should not ask you for help and still I do.  
Yesterday Irene was captured by one of the terrorist cells she used to provide information for. Her execution will take place tomorrow at nightfall outside the Pakistani town of Karachi. I beg of you: save her. I would not hesitate to come to her aid myself, but I absolutely cannot leave London at the moment. Please, Mr Holmes, you are her only hope.  
If you agree to help her, you will find enclosed a ticket for a private jet leaving London Heathrow for Karachi at 12:47 today. On board you will meet two men who will help you with the task at hand. You can trust them completely. Once you reach Karachi you will be provided with everything you deem necessary.  
Again, Mr Holmes, I implore you: help her. I believe that you are the only one who can._

_With hope, _

_Elisabeth O'Connell._

Sherlock had been sorely tempted to ignore the letter. But in the end he had been on the plane and the subsequent ten-hour-flight to Karachi. He still held an amount of contempt for Irene Adler, but he did not want her death on his conscience, not if he could do something about it.

His fingers ghosted over the strings of his beloved violin, almost unconsciously playing the melody he had written for the Woman after her supposed death on Christmas Eve. The events in Karachi played in his mind, how he had almost been too late, how Irene's face had taken on an expression of hope when she recognized him, his fight with the guards and their following flight through the nightly city.

The music stopped abruptly when he heard a soft creaking from the direction of the door. When he turned, the violin held laxly in his hand, he saw Elisabeth O'Connell standing in the doorframe.

"That was beautiful. Did you write it yourself?"

He did not deign her with an answer. She stepped closer.

"That's a Stradivarius, right? I'd recognize a tone like that everywhere."

"I did not take you to be an expert for seventeenth century string instruments?"

She chuckled.

"I'm not. But I own one of the Master's instruments myself. They are incredible and without comparison, I can tell you. And you are rather good at playing yours."

Sherlock carefully laid the instrument back into its case, his long fingers caressing the smooth wood.

"I don't think you came to talk about my musical skills, now, did you?"

She smiled softly and shook her head.

"No. I came to thank you. Thank you for saving Irene. As I said in my letter, I know that you had no reason whatsoever to help her. And yet you did. For that I will be forever grateful to you. If you ever need help, with anything, just contact me and you will get it. I have connections and resources that could be of use in your line of work."

She pulled a small business card out of the back pocket of her jeans and placed it on the coffee table. Sherlock looked at her, not like he was deducing her, but like he was trying to ascertain if she was serious.

"Where is she?"

He had left Irene in a dingy hotel room in Karachi with the two men from the plane.

"In safety. She will be lying low for a while. Then she will get a new name, a new identity and she will start a new life as far from her old one as possible. You will never see her again. Unless you want to?"

"Why would I want to see her again?"

Sherlock forced just the right amount of contempt into his voice. But Elisabeth saw the expression in his eyes, though she chose not to say anything more about the matter. She strolled round the flat for a minute, finally picking up Billy the Skull and examining him from up close. Sherlock wanted to tell her to put him down when she started to speak.

"By the way, did you read today's paper?"

"I only returned after a ten-hour-flight. No, I did not yet read today's paper. And I would thank you if you could put the skull down."

She did so with an amused smile in his direction, then she pulled a folded tabloid from the pocket of her leather jacket and threw it in his direction. He caught it without looking.

"You should read it. Page eight. It is the answer to the little _problem_ we were discussing on my first visit here."

Sherlock hated to do things because people told him, but her cryptic remark made him curious. When he opened the newspaper on the page she had indicated, he was greeted by the lurid picture of a burnt down factory building and the headline

"**Factory fire. Foreign businessman killed in accident**".

The first paragraph told him that Mr Laslo Balaur, a wealthy businessman from Romania, had been killed last night in a fire in an abandoned factory. The police did not yet know what Mr Balaur had been doing in that place, but for them it was clearly an accident. Sherlock scrutinised the small picture of Mr Balaur displayed next to the article. Then he lifted his head and watched Elisabeth very intently.

"He was your father."

It was not a question.

"Yes. As you can see, the physical family likeness between him and me was very pronounced. So there is no use arguing about that point."

She was right. The woman in front of Sherlock and the man in the picture had the same green eyes, the same somewhat prominent nose, the same curly black hair and very similar cheekbones.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her.

"You would not happen to know anything more about that tragic fire, Ms O'Connell?"

She smiled her wolfish smile.

"Mr Holmes, I can assure you, you will not find even a trace of my presence at that place. It seems to be very difficult to find evidence like that when the whole place is burnt to the ground."

"How… unfortunate. And what an unlucky coincidence for Mr Balaur to be in that exact factory just when it caught on fire, don't you think?"

"Since you and I both know what kind of a man he was, I'd say it was more _karma_ than coincidence."

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Sherlock saw the bulky signet ring with the engraved dragon on her forefinger.

"I trust that the Dragon's daughter will also be his heir?"

Elisabeth looked at the ring as if she had all but forgotten about it. Sherlock noticed that it was slightly too big for her finger. It also had a smudge of a dark colour that looked suspiciously like soot.

"Well, since Balaur unfortunately did not leave a Last Will, it is the nearest blood relative that stands to inherit his business."

Anything else she might have wanted to say was cut short by her phone beeping insistently in the pocket of her leather jacket. She checked the message and smiled apologetically at Sherlock.

"I am sorry, but I've got to go. Duty calls. It was nice meeting you again, Mr Holmes."

"I don't know if I would call it nice, but it was certainly interesting, Ms O'Connell."

Sherlock extended his hand and shook her small one. He held on for a moment longer than necessary, squeezing tight, and bored his gaze into hers.

"I feel like I need to warn you, Ms O'Connell. I am not the police. If they think Balaur's death to be an accident I will certainly not be the one to point out their mistake. But I will not stop monitoring Balaur's business. If I see that the criminal doings of his companies go on, you will find that I can make a very formidable adversary."

"Duly noted, Mr Holmes."

He let go of her hand.

"And tell Ms Adler that my brother thinks her dead. If she wants to live her life in peace, she should take care that it stays that way. I would find it unpleasant if my brother discovered my involvement in this little affair."

She smiled again and nodded her head.

"I will make sure to tell her. Good day, Mr Holmes."

She turned and was already through the doorframe before she stopped and turned to face him again, her nose scrunched up as if she smelled something foul.

"Oh, and if I were you, I would get rid of that body part – whatever it is – that is moulding in the fridge. Otherwise I doubt Dr. Watson will be pleased when he returns from his little trip."

Before Sherlock could answer her, she was gone. Sherlock went into the kitchen to brew himself a cup of tea while quietly wondering how on earth she could have known about that heart sitting on the top shelf of the fridge collecting mildew.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _Ok, so, where did this come from? One plot bunny for this story was my OC Elisabeth, who is the main character of a non-fanfiction story I'm developing. She is actually a five hundred year old vampire, but Sherlock does not need to know that ;) One day I started asking myself what would happen if Elisabeth and Sherlock ever met. The second inspiration for this was that I was always wondering how Sherlock managed to save Irene all on his own without Mycroft noticing. I mean, he is good, but no **that** good (I guess). So in my mind these two combined and this story was born. I hope you like it, because I certainly had fun writing it :D_

Constructive criticism is always welcome since English is not my native language ;)


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